A Small Adventure
by mf32
Summary: Jane Watson is slowly recovering from the loss of Sherlock. A small assignment from Lestrade is just what she needs to pick up her mood.


A Small Adventure

by

Mary Freeman

A big thank you to my beta, my husband Tim, for his encouragement and gentle suggestions, which materially improved the story.

Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Return.

Warnings: none, really, a little tension, no violence. Some indulgence of the author's love for cats...

Disclaimer: Freely adapted from the public domain works of Arthur Conan Doyle, and "A Flight into Texas" by Arthur Train, also in the public domain. (story in: Hawthorn, Julian, ed. The Lock and key Library: Real Life. Downloaded from Project Gutenberg.) (Readers should be aware that the characters in this story and its writing style are closer to the Conan Doyle version than any of the, also enjoyable, more recent versions.)

It was in June of 1892 that I began to feel myself again. It was several months since that tragic loss at the falls of Reichenbach. Upon my return home, I had gone back to my duties as a women's and children's physician, but I felt as if I were living in a dream. In the two years since we had met, as neighboring lodgers at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes had become such a part of my life that it did not seem quite like my own life without him. We had shared many pleasant conversations and had even taken many of our meals together, not to mention sallying forth together on the most incredible adventures.

But all that was over now, and had been for some time. It was a much more sober Jane Watson who once again diligently went about her daily routine. Still heavy-hearted and somewhat bored, I sat one June evening at the little round lace-covered dining table, at which we had shared so may suppers, listlessly toying with my dinner knife over a half-eaten meal, when a sudden small noise at the opened window just to my right caused me to look up. There on the sill I beheld a cat, peering at me intently and not at all timidly. How she got there (for a she it was, I eventually learned, from the travail of giving her a much needed bath, an experience from which I shall never quite recover) was a mystery to me, as I reside on the third and top floor of Mrs. Hudson's lodgings. I could only surmise that she had dropped down from the roof onto my flowerbox.

My feline visitor sniffed delicately, her beautiful black and honey tortoise shell coat rippling and twitching. Then she lightly hopped from sill to table and began to nibble on my unfinished supper, without so much as a by-your-leave to me.  
As she ate, I observed her more closely. She had a white spot over her heart and the most hypnotic green eyes. Her movements as she picked at the food were light and graceful, as if she had been accustomed to eat dainty morsels in a palace all her life.

I hadn't the heart to try to stop her, especially as the food would only go to waste, and besides, it was pleasant to have a little companionship in my lonely apartments, if only for a little while. When she was finished, the cat stretched out across the lacy surface of the table, and began to groom herself in a most satisfied way. I merely stared at her in somewhat of a stupor, still drinking in the welcome presence of another.

A little way into her regimen, she suddenly stopped her cleaning and looked attentively at the door to my apartment. Nothing happened for quite some time - it may have been a minute - then Mrs. Hudson knocked and entered, desiring to remove my dinner tray. She saw my guest and merely clucked her tongue as she left.

Once she was gone, I found myself musing on the fact that the cat had known that Mrs. Hudson was coming long before she could have heard her ascending the stairs. And neither was she familiar with our daily routine. It may have been a bit superstitious of me (Holmes surely would not have approved), but, having been reading the Agamemnon of Aeschylus earlier in the day, with its story of Cassandra the tragic prophetess, I felt inspired to name my new friend after the ancient seeress.

Over the succeeding days, Cassandra came and went at will, usually joining me for my evening meal, if not before. I laid out a small throw blanket on a pillow in a niche by the fireplace, and that came to be her spot, where she eventually deigned to sleep nights, when the weather turned cold, and I had, under protest, to shut the window.

But, I digress. About a week after I had acquired my new feline flatmate, I had a day of little medical activity, and was resting and reading, when I received a visit from Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.

"Dear me, Inspector Lestrade," I said as I ushered him into my sitting room, "I never expected to see your face at 221B again."

"I'm sorry to trouble you, Miss Watson, I know our loss is felt the more sharply when we see old friends."

I reassured him that it was a great pleasure to see him once again, and asked him what had brought him to my humble abode, "not so exotic as Holmes' decorative scheme, but, I think, more livable."

He replied that he had an unusual request to make of me. I was immediately all ears at the prospect of once again participating in some small way in the endless game of cops and robbers to which Holmes had addicted me.

Lestrade asked me, "Have you heard of a Mr. Hubble, of the London solicitors firm of Hubble & Hune? I replied that I had. While they had never been directly involved in any of Holmes' investigations with which I was familiar, their names had come up a few times, incidentally.

Lestrade told me that Mr. Hubble, who was known as the "little lawyer with the big fingers" (in every pie in London, some said), had finally been witnessed committing a crime. The poor man who had seen the deed was a coachman often employed by the firm in their members' goings to and fro. He had told what he had seen to a policeman, who had promptly informed Scotland Yard, but by the time officers of the Yard went to interview him, he had been spirited away by Messrs. Hubble and Hume.

"We have some information that he and an associate are at the Falstaff Grand Hotel in Canterbury, but when we contacted the police there, they said they had not seen him.

"We would not trouble you with this Miss Watson," Lestrade continued, "except for the fact that the witness's companion is another solicitor with that notorious firm, and he would instantly recognize any men from the Yard who appeared in that city. We need someone who is not known to them, such as yourself."

"of course," I replied enthusiastically, "you want me to find him!"

"Now just a minute, Miss Watson, this is not child's play," Lestrade rejoined. "These are dangerous and desperate men. They will stop at nothing to keep poor Mr. Hide, the witness, from taking the stand."

But I had been too long without the excitement of the chase, and I eagerly committed myself to whatever task he had in mind. Lestrade once again cautioned me, and explained that ALL they wanted me to do was to go to the Falstaff Grand Hotel and try to spot the man. A description and lithograph, provided no doubt by his terrified wife, would be provided me. Once I ascertained that it was indeed he, I was to do NOTHING save telegraph the Yard immediately. They would then come and arrest him, after quickly obtaining a local warrant.

So it was, that the very next day I packed Cassandra into a basket (with great effort and receiving in the process not a few scratches), and took the train to Canterbury.

The hotel was a very grand establishment indeed, boasting at least one hundred rooms on several floors, situated just across the street from the railway station. It was a frequent stop for travelers on their way to Dover, intending to take the steamship across the Channel to the Continent. I presumed that this was the plan of Mr. Hide and his guardian. I proceeded to acquire a room.

My initial plan was simply to sit in the foyer or on the benches in front of the hotel and to observe those coming and going. But after I had been at this for two long days and had not seen the hapless quarry, I devised another plan. I went to a local cab company and obtained a manager's business card, which I inscribed on the back with an offer of transport anywhere in the city, at a reasonable price. I then bought a tuppenny envelope and addressed it to "Mr. Hide," sealing the card inside.

I had been observing the comings and goings at the hotel front desk with some boredom, but had noticed that delivery persons and others often dropped off messages for guests, which were placed in the proper pigeon hole for the guest's room. I casually slipped my envelope onto the desk while the hotel clerk was engaged with someone else, and quickly walked a short distance away. To my joy, as I turned around to look, the clerk took the envelope, looked at the name, and efficiently filed it in the box for Room 420. There I had him! Not only did I now know that Mr. Hide was a resident at that hotel, I knew his exact room! Almost crowing with pride at the success of my small stratagem, I went to my room, checked on a rather bored Cassandra, promised her lunch soon, and changed my clothes, also putting on my nice hat with a bit of netting in front, and a dab of genteel perfume. I went to look at Rm. 420 and noted the numbers of nearby rooms.

I then returned to the front desk and complained that my room was not suitable. I mentioned that I had stayed there before very satisfactorily in the area of rooms 422, 424, and 425, and requested to be relocated to one of these. The accommodating clerk moved me forthwith, and I became a neighbor of the illusive Mr. Hide.

Immediately upon changing rooms, I telegraphed Inspector Lestrade to tell him of my discovery, and then retired to my room to observe through the keyhole anyone who might emerge from Rm. 420, now just across the hall and a little way down from me.

After a quick shared lunch and a couple of hours of strained and uncomfortable sitting at the keyhole, I saw two men emerge from the room under surveillance. They were both dressed in evening wear. One said something about the dining room on the second floor. Despite his strong physique, he looked ill and ill at ease in his fine clothes. His sturdy face was pale and there were circles under his eyes, as if he had not slept well for several days. His companion was his complete opposite. Suave and poised, he glided down the hall, speaking quietly to his charge in soothing tones, that nevertheless set my teeth on edge. His dark hair was slicked back, and his evening clothes were of the latest fashion and a perfect fit for his trim figure. Even if I hadn't recognized Mr. Hide from his lithograph, it would have been easy to tell who was who.

"You're certainly in over your head, my poor man," I thought to myself, little realizing how well that statement could have applied just then to myself.

The two men went down to their supper. Feeling, in retrospect, a bit over-confident, I exited my room, and, spying a chambermaid coming down the hall, I explained to her that I was the secretary of the two men in Rm. 420, who had sent me back up to fetch some papers that they had forgotten, and would she be so kind as to let me in the room? I, thoughtless woman that I am, had forgotten my key. She looked a bit askance at me, but when a small bribe greased her palm, she took out her keys and let me in.

I wasted no time, but looked around quickly, being careful to use my handkerchief to avoid leaving those insidious telltale fingerprints. I saw a small carpet bag with Hide's name on it, and, among several letters to and from Hubble & Hune, a pair of train tickets for Dover, dated the next day. My birds were going to fly before the police could catch up with them!

I quietly left the room and went to telegraph my new intelligence to Inspector Lestrade, checking on the way for a response to my first message. There was none as yet.

A bit nervous, I went out and purchased a ticket for the same train, hoping to keep the two fugitives in view until the officials could take Mr. Hide into custody. Upon my return, there was still no word from Scotland Yard. I went upstairs, and Cassandra and I had a small supper, before putting in for the night. Cassandra seemed restless, nosing me agitatedly in the face several times before I passed out in exhaustion. Surprisingly, I slept soundly.

I awoke the next morning mortified to find the sun well up and the day progressing! I was not habitually a late riser and couldn't understand the cause of my delinquency. I hastily dressed and crated the unhappy Cassandra, who had only just begun to forgive me for crating her once, and checked out of the hotel. But it was too late; the train had been scheduled to leave at 9 a.m., and it was now well after 10.

I blearily and desperately looked up and down the street, as if somehow I would be able to see the two fugitives just leaving. I regained my composer and dejectedly bought a train ticket back to London and home.

I did not want to confess to Inspector Lestrade how I had failed him, but I felt duty-bound to do so. When I arrived at the offices of Scotland Yard that afternoon, Inspector Lestrade was out, no doubt effectively chasing down criminals.

I apologized profusely to an Inspector Smith, a tall, quiet, sharp-eyed detective, dressed in the standard style Scotland Yard suit, explaining, somewhat to his surprise I think, the task that Inspector Lestrade had set for me.

"You, miss, found Mr. Hide?" he said.

"Well, yes I did," I preened, "but then he got away!" I slumped in my chair. Inspector Smith offered me some tea, which I gladly accepted. "I'm so very sorry; I wanted to keep him in sight until you all arrived."

"Don't worry miss," he said reassuringly, "you were really very helpful. Because of your telegraphs, we were able to place a man on that train to Dover this morning. We have hopes of apprehending Mr. Hide as he tries to flee the country."

"Oh, really," I said, brightening, "well maybe I did some good after all."

"Undoubtedly," said Inspector Smith. "Now if you will excuse me, I must be getting back to work. I'm sure Inspector Lestrade will be in touch with you to thank you for your efforts."

"Yes, of course," I said, a bit wistfully, realizing that my small adventure was indeed over. "I was glad to help."

Several months later, I was sitting by the fire with Cassandra on a cold winters eve, reading the Times. I was surprised to see a notice that a Mr. Hide, accused of withholding evidence in a criminal investigation, had finally been apprehended by Scotland Yard, after many legal battles in several cities. The law firm of Hubble & Hune had been most assiduous in their applications for Mr. Hide's freedom, and had won his release from police custody several times, each time moving him to a new city and causing a new round of extradition warrant-writ of habeas corpus wrangling to begin anew each time.

I sadly smiled at Cassandra, who had become my companion and friend. "Well, that was an adventure almost worthy of the great Sherlock Holmes himself," I said. She just looked at me, her great magnetic eyes gleaming in the firelight.

The End


End file.
